


All I've got

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Series: I "Khan't" live without you [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Author is tired, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Inner Dialogue, M/M, and so not procrastinating on other stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't think I've ever been as happy as I am with you. You calm me, and care for me, and soothe my loneliness. And I have no idea why you do it. By all rights, you should hate me and I'm afraid I'm going to lose you someday."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I've got

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. It's midnight and I'm trying to write this, so I make no promises that it's legible. If you find an error, feel free to shoot it. Just a bit of fluff inspired by a movie I just watched and the fact that it's midnight and I'm tired.

I take a deep breath, my body tired and sore. I feel ready to drop, right here in the corridor, and sleep for hours straight. I rarely sleep anymore, but I bet I will tonight.

Klingons take a lot out of you.

I stumble to my door and press my hand to the panel clumsily. It slides open and I drag myself through. My movements are tired, clumsy and uncoordinated. My exhaustion shows in the way I walk, as if each step were my last. 

And then I'm in the bathroom, my hands braced on the counter, shoulders hunched, head hanging. I don't even remember walking in here. I look up slightly, lifting my head just enough to see my reflection in the mirror. I'm dirt-streaked and coated in a layer of dust kicked up from the ships' engines. My dark hair hangs limply in front of my face, sticking with sweat and blood. 

The blood.

It's everywhere; I'm coated in it. I have no idea anymore how much of it is even mine and how much is Klingon. I roll my neck to stretch out a pulled muscle and see a splash of green liquid there. Thick in consistency and emerald in color, I know it's Vulcan blood.

I push myself onto one hand and swipe at it with my other. I merely end up smearing it around, and I look at my hand in disgust as the green spreads there, too. I can't stand that Vulcan bastard.

I know you two are friends, so I don't say anything to him or you, but I hate him with a passion. For years, _years,_ he left me believing everyone I cared about was dead. Only for them to really die mere hours after I learned they'd been alive all along. 

But as much as I hate Spock, I hate Klingons more.

And that's the only reason I do this. The only reason I give my sweat and blood for this. Because we have a common enemy, a common hate. I would kill every last one of those wretched Klingons if I thought I'd have the chance, but you watch me too closely. 

At first it was because you didn't trust me, and I wasn't surprised. But slowly, over time, it came to be something more. And I'm not even sure where it came from; it just came, one day, when you kissed me and everything slid into place perfectly. I don't think I've ever been as happy as I am with you. You calm me, and care for me, and soothe my loneliness. And I have no idea why you do it.

By all rights, you should hate me. I killed so many people, and you are such a good, such a moral, person. I don't deserve you, you do realize that? I don't know if you do; I don't know why you stay. I'm afraid I'm going to lose you someday.

My arms are starting to shake slightly from the exertion of keeping myself in this position. It's the lack of sleep and food starting to set in. Super-human though I may be, I am at my core still human. 

I need to clean up, to shower, and maybe eat. I need to change out of these filthy, ripped clothes and check for injuries. I can't even tell how badly I'm wounded, my whole body hurts that badly. I should change, shower, eat, go down to the MedBay. That would make Dr. McCoy happy, or at least not pissed at me. 

I push myself off the counter with one last exertion of force and stumble the few steps out of the bathroom to my bed, where I promptly collapse. I'll get some sleep, and in the morning I'll regret not having showered, but I don't care at all right now. I just can't bring myself to.

I hear a chime at the door and ignore it. Whoever it is can wait. Then the door opens and I realize it's you. You're going to be mad as soon as you see me, because I didn't get cleaned up. But I doubt you're going to be surprised. You're going to sigh and pick me up, clean me off and take me to bed. You're going to fall asleep with your arms around me, your breathing soft and warm on the back of my neck. And I won't sleep, because I never do when you're here. I don't know why that's true - it's not as if I don't trust you.

I hear your quiet footsteps come closer and then stop; you're in the bedroom. Then they start again and you get closer still. A gentle hand slides into my hair, then out again, not wanting to pull at the numerous knots. It rests momentarily at my neck then travels down my spine. It feels so good, but I'm too tired to do much more than moan briefly.

I hear you take a deep breath and let it down slowly. The mattress bends under your weight as you bring one knee up to lean on when you kiss the side of my neck just below my ear. One hand gently holds my shoulder, the other curves around my head, cradling it.

"You don't want to get up, do you?" You ask quietly, your words hot moisture on my ear. I grunt, the sound not much different from my earlier moan. But somehow you know I'm agreeing with you.

"Tell you what," You say, quietly but authoritatively, your command streak showing through. "Just let me get you out of these clothes and wipe off the worst of the blood, and then I'll leave you be."

I grunt again, not entirely sure if I'm saying 'yes' or 'no.' You take it as an affirmative, I assume, and leave my side. I hear your boots click on the tile in the bathroom and listen as you draw water from the tap, wetting one of the towels.

You return quickly enough, probably setting the towel on the bedside table as you quickly strip me of my clothes. First the vest, which held my weapons and tools, then the jacket made out of the wind-resistant material, designed to stop the dirt and grit flung up by the planet's wind-storms. You pull the thermal undershirt off, and I keep my face neutral as scabs are pulled and broken.

There's a pause, and then warm water drips down the sides of my neck and I feel a comfortable pressure on my spine. You scrub gently there, then on the sides, and I can picture the green blood disappearing under your care. I like that image.

You move onto my back, dabbing gently at the scabs until they stop bleeding again. A month ago, you would have insisted on taking me to the MedBay to have them bandaged, but you know now I'll be better in a matter of minutes. You clean the rest of my back off, mostly for sweat, stopping to kiss each of my bruises.

You pull off my pants gently, and clean up the blood and scabs that cover my legs. You note my red and swollen ankle; I feel you touch and probe gently, wondering if more care is needed. I want to open my mouth and tell you I'm fine, that it will heal by morning, but I'm so fatigued I can't even manage that. I'm not usually this tired, though it's been known to happen, more so in the past few months. Normally, I don't let anyone see me like this, so beaten, so vulnerable.

Then you're done, and you're tucking me under the sheets. You're gone a moment again, and then you're climbing in with me, spooning against my back. You've taken off all but your pants and I can feel your warm skin against mine. 

One hand curls up under our heads, because I know you're sleeping on it, too. The other rests lazily on my chest, I can feel the weight of your arm on my ribs. It's not long before you're asleep: it's been a long day for you too. I lay in bed, listening to your even breathing and the hum of the ship's engines. I can hear people in the corridor, just barely, as they move about, going through their routine jobs. 

I finally open my eyes, the first time since you walked it. I twist my head as best I can to see you. You've got a cut on your lip, undoubtably from a Klingon fist, and a bruise is forming on your collarbone. Your injuries will last. Your's will last days, weeks even, while mine are fading as you sleep. I can feel the slight tickling sensation of skin reforming and blood draining away.

I worry about you, Jim. You don't know it, but I do. All of a sudden, you are the only thing I have, and I don't want to lose you. I care about you too much. And you care about me, somehow, remarkably. You take such risks and I know you love to and I know you can take care of yourself, but still I worry. I worry about you like I worried about my crew. And I worry that when the time comes, I'll fail you too. 

Somehow, as if you know what I'm thinking, you stir and open your eyes. You must have felt some subtle shift in my body, your subconscious reacting to it - fearing danger of some kind - and waking you quickly. But you have no knowledge of this as you smile up at me, your face kind, your eyes tired.

"What's up?" You mumble, blinking sleepily at me.

"Nothing." I say shortly, sounding much more awake than you, and lay my head back down and force my body to relax. But your heard the tone of my voice, and you're not buying it. I feel you push yourself up onto your elbow.

"Come on." You say, nudging my shoulder with your hand. "We've talked about this: you don't have to do this alone."

I shake my head in denial. I don't know how to tell you what I'm thinking, not sure I want you to know. I definitely don't want to do it right now.

"Khan." You breathe, and my heart breaks because I've done it again. You're worried about _me._ You're sad because of _me._ You're upset because you think I'm cutting myself off because of something _you've_ done. God, Jim, you couldn't be farther from the truth. But I don't know how to _tell_ you that. I don't know how to express myself.

I hear you sigh quietly, and you lay down again. You press your face into the back of my neck; I feel your breath on the base of my shoulders. 

"Please, Khan, don't do this." You mumble, and I'm not sure you actually meant for me to hear. 

And suddenly I'm talking. "I care about you." I blurt out, and I don't remember ever making a conscious decision to say anything. You just sounded so damn sad.

But I can't stop now, so I force myself to continue, gathering my thoughts as I go. "I don't want anything to happen to you because you're all I've got, Jim, and I don't want you to-" I don't want to say it, but there's really no point in stopping now "-to leave me."

For a long moment there's nothing, and I'm afraid my worst fears are about to solidify in front of me. But then you wrap your arms around my waist and squeeze, holding on to me tight, and you kiss the back of my neck, marking a trail from my shoulders to my ear.

"I'm not going anywhere. Okay, Khan? I care too much about you to just walk out on you, and I can take care of myself. Everything's going to be fine, okay? Just stop worrying, especially about things you can't change. Like the future." 

Your words make sense to me, and I try to take comfort in them, but somehow I still feel worried and unsettled. Maybe it's something that will come with time, with work. After all, someone once said nothing worth having comes easily. Peace of mind probably falls under that category.

I wriggle backwards, trying to burrow my way back into you. If possible, we press ourselves even closer together. 

"I love you." You whisper into my ear, and it's the last thing I hear before my exhaustion finally takes over and I fall asleep.


End file.
